I received the new issue of Dislocatea few days back which has great work from, among others, Nin Andrews, (Lincoln-ite) Josh Ware, and Kevin Wilson whose story collection Tunneling to the Center of the Earth I’ll be writing about soon.

It also has a short short from me which is only notable for having an absurdly sad beginning–sort of a boring middle–and absurdly happy ending. I also once got to describe it to a famous writer at the now defunct Sadie’s Saloon in Lincoln. We were drunk–well, one of us was drunk–and hitting on all the girls despite the fact we were married–well, one of us was hitting on all the girls despite the fact we were married–and generally having a good time. I’d mostly been ignoring the famous writer because he wrote one of my favorite books and I don’t know what else I’d say to him, but I got pulled into a conversation by Heather who the famous writer seemed to have taken a liking to.

[Ed note: Heather would like it pointed out that he was hitting on everyone. Adam would like it pointed out that he wasn’t hitting on Adam. Not that that would have been something Adam would have wanted, exactly, but it might have been a little flattering].

I think I was supposed to defuse the situation by my introduction, but I was also a little on the famous writer’s side. I mean, he did write [book title] and fought in [war]. I’d probably spent most of the night before that point in a pair of sweatpants trying to beat Contra.

Heather, you can correct me here, but I believe we got to have this conversation on the way home.

Heather: Ugh, he just kept hitting on me.Me: He did write [book title].Heather: You think that excuses it?Me: [a little bit thinks that excuses it]Heather: You need to stop using the laser and stick with the spread gun.Me: I would have changed out of my sweatpants if I’d known I was going to talk to him.

Anyway, so the famous writer starts talking about stories that either out of embarrassment or shame or the use of something he knows will upset them, he doesn’t share with his loved ones until he absolutely has to. I actually have one of these stories–this one in Dislocate–and I quickly describe the premise to the famous writer.

Famous writer: Who won’t you let read that one?Me: [pointing at the only other person in the conversation]Famous writer: She’s hot.Me: I think she likes you, bro.Heather: No I don’t.Me: Hey, did you learn anything in [war] that might help me beat Contra?Famous writer: Yes. Yes, I did.

Things in that story which are actually true:

1. There have been wars2. Sadie’s Saloon is gone3. I do have a self-destructive affinity for the laser gun in Contra4. The new issue of Dislocate is great and you should read it

Okay, maybe one or two other things. Also, the song I am listening to just had a lyric that is also the name of this writer’s most famous book (but not my favorite). So that was weird.

I’m not really sure why I told that story, and I’m pretty sure this has gone on longer than my sad, bad, happy, still mostly bad piece in Dislocate. Here, J. Ware will save me. Here’s the first line of his poem “103107” which will take us all out on a high note:

If the antiquated movements of electrons have no history, then silver-clear shadowscan cut the moon in two.

Two really odd google searches took people to this blog within eight hours of each other yesterday:

“Tim Allen Gets Raped in Prison”

and

“Fat Pictures Ohio Random Walmart”

Wow.

For the record, I come in first and fourth, respectively, in the search results. That is until I actually post this. At that point I’ll lock up the market for Tim Allen rape fetishists and those looking for pictures of fat people at a (non-particular) Wal-Mart in Ohio.